


Reshuffle

by factorielle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Conventions, Conversations, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Neckz 'n' Throatz, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle/pseuds/factorielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was any justice in this world, Derek would never have to attend KNOTCon. </p><p>But there is no justice. There’s only Laura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reshuffle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love Runs Wild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/771875) by [DevilDoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilDoll/pseuds/DevilDoll). 



> Set in the early days of [DevilDoll](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilDoll/pseuds/DevilDoll)'s [Love Runs Wild](http://archiveofourown.org/works/771875) universe.

If there was any justice in the world, the amount of time and energy Derek has put into protecting the **Neckz’n Throats** models from their own contracts would have granted him the same rights as them. Namely, the choice to never ever show up at the hellhole that is more commonly known as a ‘convention’.

But, as he’s been told his entire life, there is no justice. There’s only Laura.

Laura, who doesn’t even have to try and circumvent the legalese of the modeling contract he’s insisted on signing to cover his rare appearances in the magazine. Laura, who knows him and everything that makes him tick. Laura, who always manages to trick him into owing her a favor, three times a year, like clockwork.

He’s had years to get used to it. Like every werewolf, his entire life has been an exercise in enduring, and this is nothing more than an extension of that. Or at least that’s what he tells himself, for the three days that the Keokuk NOn-humans and Theriantropes Convention is going to last this year. Derek hadn’t realized what it meant when Peter told him six months ago that the con had been sold to new owners with _ideas_.

It means, apparently, that the former 36 hours non-stop rush of loud music, caffeinated drinks and adult entertainment is going to turn into a week of nine-to-five family-friendly fun. This year is the middle ground, where **Neckz’n Throats** and other 18+ products have been segregated into a closed corner with a single entrance manned by guards who check the ID’s of anyone who looks under twenty-five, and don’t have any qualms showing fang when provoked.

It’s an awkward compromise, especially when the new organizers haven’t rebranded the convention. Still, Derek takes a certain amount of satisfaction in the knowledge that come next year, **Neckz’n Throats** will likely be refused a stand on the grounds of ‘adult content’.

This year, though, he still has to play nice as Laura drags him around and forces him to shake hands, sign a picture or two for an advertiser too important to sneer at. But at least he doesn’t have to face the indignity of sitting at a table for hours, dispensing small talk to a neverending stream of people who’ve all made themselves come to detailed fantasies of him —crumpled the pages of the magazine in their hands as they jerked off, jizzed all over his face printed on the paper— and make no effort to hide it.

No model in their right mind should ever make the choice to come back to one of these things, regardless of the money they’re offered for it.

And yet.

“This place is _awesome_ ,” Stiles enthuses at his side, having finally passed the line of the two guards who took way too much time checking his ID. Derek feels his eyes roll to the back of his head. Of course Stiles likes it here, this place that’s all noise and bright lights and _people_ that make Derek itch to let his claws out.

Not that he could, not in public. It wouldn’t be civilized.

Really, the surprise is that Stiles, while enthusiastic about everything he’s seen since entering the convention hall, is not bouncing all over the place like the pixies they encountered earlier. He keeps glancing left and right, grinning wide at things Derek wouldn’t even have noticed, but doesn’t ever slow them down— at least until they reached the age line.

“Damn, I knew I should have brought Scott,” Stiles is mourning aloud while looking, inexplicably, at an effigy of Priapus that’s advertised as Actual Size, Actual Results.

It calls for no answer from Derek, but seeing Stiles gawp at a gigantic erection forces the words out of his mouth anyway. “You’re here to work,” remember?” he grumbles. He really is, unlike most of the recently-hired models who might as well be moonlighting. Stiles’ popularity was… not a surprise, exactly, not unexpected, but a revelation all the same. He’s already been bumped to the top ten favorite models on the site’s monthly poll, which are skewed against newcomers to begin with. The returning customers, those who pay for the exclusive photos and behind-the-scenes videos, are the one who get attached to characters, who take an interest.

They’re taking an interest in Stiles, all right.

Laura, keeping faith with her ‘less is more’ policy, has already reduced Stiles’ planned appearances in the magazine to six times a year, and has been hinting at the possibility of having him do a paired shoot.

It’s embarrassing, really, that she feels she has to be so careful about it around Derek. As if he couldn’t handle himself, as if he needs protection from the idea of someone else touching this near-stranger. Stiles ticks all the boxes, yes, everything that appeals to werewolves: pale skin and long throat and veins right under the surface, but he’s neither the first nor the last. Laura knows how to spot them, Lydia and Isaac are talented at making their models look good, and Matt is a genius with a camera. Derek knows all that happens behind the scenes, is aware of all the tricks that get used to make a model more attractive.

It’s a matter of unbelievable frustration that he’s falling for them himself, like he hasn’t seen it done a hundred times with a hundred other pale-skinned teens. It’s also getting ridiculously distracting. Case in point: Derek is so lost in his mental tally of how and why Stiles is not that special that he doesn’t see the threat coming until it’s too late.

Another inevitable consequence of the adult entertainment all being grouped in the same corner is that they’re going to spend the entire con within spitting distance of **Hunting Grounds** , which they’d always managed to avoid so far. They could all have politely ignored one another, but the Argents are nothing if not prone to provocation.

“Derek.”

Stiles is aware enough of his surroundings to have stopped when Derek did, standing half a step behind him. It’s not quite enough, but in the crowded alley it will have to do. “Chris,” he responds, icy, to the fakest smile ever seen in the world of business.

Argent blinks and pivots subtly to face Stiles, dismissing Derek entirely. “Stiles,” he says, not even trying hard at faking pleasant surprise. “I’m surprised you managed to make it into this corner. Is security that lax?”

Derek has to make a conscious effort not to bristle at the barely-veiled suggestion. He opens his mouth without knowing what’s going to come out of it, but Stiles cuts him short, grinning easily. “Oh, no, they carded me. But I’ve been eighteen for a while. I’m not surprised you don’t remember, the celebration kind of doubled up with Allison’s finally-moving-out party.”

The retort seems to cut through at least three layers of Argent’s smarmy affability, but it also makes a once-familiar sick feeling curl in Derek’s stomach.

“At any rate,” Argent says, showing no sign of a pierced armor but for a thinner smile and the slight clenching of his left hand, “if I’d known you were amenable to…” he trails off, gives Stiles a slow, deliberate once-over that has Derek’s eyes narrowing, and ejects the next word like it’s dirty “ _modeling_ , I would have offered you a job long ago.”

Derek thinks he can feel his teeth crack from how hard he's grinding them. But better pay for the dental care than swipe his claws at Chris Argent’s neck. _He was asking for it_ is not an acceptable excuse in the face of the law. It wasn’t even an acceptable excuse in the face of his second grade teacher.

Stiles’ smile doesn’t falter, and his eyes don’t leave Argent’s face. He’s forgotten about Derek too, it seems, isn’t seeking his protection in words or body language. "Have you been reading pickup artist books lately ?" he asks lighly, with a touch of concern. "Because I'll give that neg hit a six out of ten, but I think what you need is a guide to judging a person's character better."

This might be the only time Derek has ever heard anyone call Argent on his bullshit, and it makes the entire con worth it.

“Possibly,” the man says, trying for dismissive as he pulls a business card out of his jacket pocket but sounding slightly off-balance, as though he expected Stiles to… what? Agree that posing for a werewolf magazine is a demeaning act that no self-respecting human would ever perform? The Argents have no problem catering to the baser instincts of their platform, but they wouldn’t be caught dead in their own publication, and for good reason. They’re the ones unabashedly marketing humans as prey to the mindless beasts they take werewolves for.

The very realistic blood from some of their more controversial photo shoots doesn’t come from the human models, though.

“Anyway, if you feel like a change of pace, give me a call. I’m sure we can easily come to an agreement. Something like… a permanent contract, with full health benefits for you and your family?”

Derek feels Stiles stiffen, but that’s the only sign that the words have found their mark. Stiles stares blankly at the card in front of him for a second, then returns his full attention to the man. “I would,” he says in a tone that would indicate to the most distant and oblivious stranger that no, he really wouldn’t, “but these things really need to go through my agent. Scott McCall, I can give you his phone number if you want.”

Whatever the message is, Argent gets it. Gets it bad enough that his smile freezes for the briefest second as he brings his hand back to his side. “I see," he says, voice tight like he’s just been defeated, and isn’t that a welcome sound. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll see you around. Derek," he says with a tilt of his head, and within seconds he’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd that seems to get denser by the minute.

“Is it just me, or was he being even more dickish than usual?” Stiles asks of thin air, still stuck in place.

“That depends on your baseline,” Derek finds himself answering. As fishing for information goes, it’s not exceptionally subtle, so he tries to cover up. “Let’s go, you’re going to be late.”

Stiles shrugs, but falls in step behind Derek. “Exceptional to humongous,” he grumbles. He seems unconcerned about whether Derek can hear him or not. Rare, for a human who wasn’t raised within a pack. “Back in high school, his daughter in her immense wisdom and excellent taste in men decided to date my best friend.”

That would be Scott, if the frequency of his mentions in Stiles’ offhand comments is anything to judge by. Scott, who at Derek’s best guess is likely a werewolf, and suddenly the foggy picture of Stiles’ obvious dislike for Chris Argent becomes clearer.

“He disapproved?” he prompts, glancing over his shoulder to see if Stiles’ fallen quiet because he considers the story over or because he’s been distracted by another fertility god’s dick.

Stiles snorts, a sound that’s angry and tugs at Derek inside. “Yeah. The kind of disapproval that comes with ‘I have a shotgun and I’m not afraid to use— oh woops, didn’t realize that trigger was so sensitive.’ ”

That stops Derek dead, which makes Stiles bump into him and creates a ripple of grumbling around them as others have to suddenly change their trajectories to avoid a tragic pile-up in the alley. “Did he seriously—”

“Scott wouldn’t let me tell my dad. Said he couldn’t stand it if Allison had to be permanently separated from her father because of him.” That makes Best Friend Scott the kind of sentimental idiot Derek might once have felt a kinship with.

As for Stiles… “Permanently separated? Is your father an assassin?” Derek feels compelled to ask.

That grants him an amused chuckle, and in turn a pang of satisfaction that, later, in the privacy of his own room, he will repress to the utmost of his ability. “When it comes to me and mine, close enough. But officially he’s a sheriff.”

That would have sufficed to put a damper on Derek’s attraction to Stiles, because legal or not he’s a boy of barely nineteen, still in college and at a prime age for making bad life choices. (Like posing for a skin mag aimed at werewolves.) A father in law enforcement could bring all sorts of troubles on their heads, and he wouldn’t even have to parade a firearm to do it.

It would have sufficed, if not for the casual reminder that Stiles, for all that he’s entirely human and didn’t know any werewolves until he was well into his teens, shares their protective instinct. “Fun story though, my third grade teacher had just moved into town when the school year started, and I managed to make her believe my dad was a hitman for three full weeks. Didn’t even lie once. Even a werewolf would have been fooled, I was that good.” He sounds so proud that it surprises a bark of laughter out of Derek.

But he can’t let that kind of naivety go through unchecked, or Stiles is going to get devoured within ten minutes of meeting his first fan. “No werewolf would have been fooled,” he imparts gravely. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it’s not the lies we pick up on, it’s the intention to deceive.” They’re reaching the **Neckz’n Throats** corner now, and Derek dimly wishes he’d taken a few more turns on the way. “Your techniques are useless against us.” Lydia has already spotted them and is rushing their way, frowning already at how little time they’ve left her to work her magic on Stiles.

“I’ll make you swallow those words!” Stiles claims loudly, grinning even as he’s being dragged away. Possibly he can’t hear the unkind words Lydia is muttering at him under her breath.

Derek watches him go until Laura appears at his side, looking far too smug. “Having fun?”

They’re going to have to talk about it, he realizes, about the potential risks of having someone close to the Argents on their payroll. They’ve been down that road before. But for now, Derek is willing to trust that if Stiles jumps ship, it won’t be to go work for **Hunting Grounds** with their trade secrets in his pocket.

“It could be worse,” he concedes, and pretends not to notice her smirk.


End file.
